Chapter 1-1

CHAPTER ONE NUMBER That twelve signified completion was not in dispute. They both knew the symbology. Setting aside the Imams, Apostles and Tribes, of concern to each of them, mother and daughter in turn, were the twelve signs of the zodiac and the twelve notes in the chromatic scale. Yet all things ended at twelve and Harriet felt ill-disposed towards the containment the number implied. As if through it the cosmos had reached its limit of emanation and, duly sated, foreclosed on thirteen, a number doomed to exist forevermore as a mere twelve–plus–one. Her gaze slid from the pianola to her lap, a soothing dark green, and she found she was able to liberate herself from her musings, at least for a brief moment. For Harriet Brassington-Smythe was apt to read much into life when there was not much to be read. Happenstance would lodge in her imagination, resonant with significances. She saw rainbows of colour when there was nothing for others but grisaille. Her mission, for she was that zealous, was to make manifest through her art this unique perception, as if she, one of but a special few, were privy to nature’s inner secrets. It was not an altogether ill-founded zealousness; the one time she ignored the colours of her perception she found herself, nay the flesh of her flesh, in immense danger, and when at last she did tune in and saw the sharp glitter of black iridescences, she was so alarmed she gathered up her necessities, the tools of her trade and her daughter, and took flight. That had been a long time before and far better forgotten, and to that end she had never spoken of the event to her daughter. Harriet was in the prime of her life and in excellent form. Her long, sculpted face, untroubled by the vicissitudes of aging, had grown into its virtues, with large eyes the blacker side of brown, and a mouth at once pert and proud, the lower lip protruding a little beyond its counterpart, capable of a moue as much as an extravagant smile. The whole visage set off by a mane of wavy black hair that shone in the sunlight without a flicker of silver to be seen. She was a woman of grandiosity, bedecked as she liked to be, in a calf-length dress of vintage Twenties. She had taken on the dowager look, her presence imposing, perhaps off-putting to all but the most courageous. Over the years she had attracted few lovers and ever since her one passion curdled she had remained single. She led a secluded life, one that provided fertile and slightly acidic soil for her eccentricity to flourish like an azalea. Yet quirkiness was a quality she reserved for her friends, the two women with whom she shared much of her time, hardy perennials Rosalind Spears and Phoebe Ashworth. Together they were three stalwarts, for decades remaining in the same garden bed set against the same stone wall of personal tradition, enjoying the comforts of moisture and shade. She was suddenly uncomfortably hot. After a quick glance in the direction of the pianola, she stood. It had been an unusually warm late winter’s day and at last a cool breeze blew in through the front windows. She went and drew the curtains further aside, curtains of luxurious sanguine velvet, gorgeous to touch, curtains her daughter had said in one of her vinegary moments were more likely to be found in the boudoir of a courtesan. The garden was admirable at that time of year: Long and wide and south facing, and shaded on the high side by a stand of mountain ash, with a half-moon raised bed that coursed much of the garden’s width, retained by a low bluestone wall. Her gaze lingered here and there over the ajugas, columbines, penstemons and erigeron daisies, at last settling on the delicate leaves of the weeping Japanese maple, and the hellebores and euphorbias at its base. A wide drive of crushed limestone wound its way from door to carport and thence to gate, skirting the wall where the raised bed was widest. To either side of the gate, two rhododendrons provided privacy and, together with a row of tree ferns, dogwoods and camellias, formed a dark backdrop. At times she felt like liberating the garden from that herbage screen, throwing the space open to The Crescent, but her privacy mattered more. A handful of youngsters had gathered outside the garden of next-door-but-one and she could hear their laughter. It wouldn’t be long before they were gone, but she pulled the windows to the mullion, fastened the handles and moved aside. She wasn’t normally bothered by juvenile activity, any more than she was given to gazing out her front window, yet she wanted to shut out distractions, even as she shut in the dissonance: dissonance at once familiar and disappointing. Her daughter had taken possession of the other end of the room, ambulating the space between the pianola and the fireplace like a cougar in a cage. Ginny was nothing like her mother. A tall and willowy woman, with hands narrow and long, as were her feet. From an early age her hands appeared destined for the keys, her feet to slosh about in too-wide shoes, manufacturers assuming that long feet were also always wide. Feet aside, she was the image of her maternal grandmother. She had the same fine mousy hair and wan pallor, the same small and round mouth that formed an ‘o’ when she parted her lips, and the same grey eyes that looked through to the back of you with innocence and suspicion. Grey, accented by her choice of grey slacks and matching grey shirt, the only colour about her person that ghastly paisley-print jacket, a relic from the paisley period of her teenage years. It was a bizarre spectacle, watching her grey squirrel of a daughter, more quarry than predator, more suited to a birch wood than a rocky range, prowl back and forth across the Kashan rug. She had not been an assertive child and there was a time Harriet had worried her biddable nature would be a disadvantage in a competitive world, but as a teenager Ginny had acquired a measure of defiance, a sure sign of an independent will. The symbol she had chosen for this defiance was paisley. Whatever she wore, dress, skirt, trousers or shirt, it had to be paisley. Harriet was steadfast in the belief that Ginny wore the design not because she liked it, but to cause her mother distress. William Morris, Harriet may have endured, at least he was contemporaneous with her era, but there was something so Seventies in the look. The Seventies, that accursed decade when the hippies took hold of the occult and turned it into fairy floss. And there her daughter was in her Paisley jacket, pacing back and forth. If she kept that up she would wear a track in the Kashan rug. With every circuit the mirror that took up much of the far wall captured her reflection, doubling the impact. It was fast becoming a sensory overload and Harriet felt relieved to find herself a good distance away. The dining and living rooms had been combined years before Harriet inherited the house, along with the means to reside comfortably in it, the result a spacious high-ceilinged room with walls of exposed clinker brick. Evidence of its former design was a heavy beam spanning the width of the room and supported at each end by a stout post. The floorboards were the original oak, for Harriet would not countenance floor covering as pedestrian as carpet. The fireplace at Harriet’s end of the room had been removed to make way for bookshelves. Shelves she had filled with volumes on art and art history, mostly confined to the 1920s: Surrealism, The Dadaists, Art Deco, Expressionism, The Cubists, and Pure Abstraction. There were books on individual artists, books on movements, and books on technique. The shelves sagged in the middle beneath the weight. Facing each other across a low mahogany table, two sofas, upholstered in a sanguine hue a shade lighter than the curtains and festooned with gold cushions, bore witness to Harriet’s affection for comfort. Beyond the oak beam, the remaining fireplace was set in a wide clinker brick chimneybreast that tapered in steps to the ceiling. Beneath the mahogany mantelpiece, the arc of bricks that defined the hearth wore the soot of many fires. On the far side of the fireplace was the entrance to the kitchen, accessed through a vintage glass-beaded curtain. Black, diamond-cut and varying in size, the glass beads were arranged to form several undulations, the curtain’s scalloped fringe not quite brushing the floor. The curtain was Harriet’s most treasured piece, lending her living quarters an air of authenticity. But alas reinforcing in Ginny’s eyes the stamp of the bordello. Harriet’s expressionist artworks, hung with a keen eye for balance, adorned every expanse of wall. There was not a thing to be out of place in the room, no knick-knacks, mementoes, objet d’art, or pot plants, the room uncluttered save for two tiffany lamps, each centred upon an occasional table that filled an otherwise empty corner, an antique pedestal ash tray that was never used, an old record player housed in its own teak veneer cabinet, and a carriage clock on the mantelpiece bookended by photographs of Kandinsky and Klee in ornate oval frames. Absent from the arrangement was a photo of Ginny, Harriet having long before decided she was not sentimental when it came to her daughter. Harriet left the window and ambled around the back of a sofa, running a hand lightly along the upholstery as she went, before sitting and leaning back, ankles crossed, one hand dangling from the arm rest, as if in repose she would take command of her side of the room. Ginny paused in her perambulations, shot a cool stare in Harriet’s direction then, as if following her mother’s lead, took up the pianola stool, going so far as to open the instrument’s lid and run a single hand down the keys. The glissando intruded on the silence. Ginny pressed a run of notes in slow succession. ‘Not twelve then,’ she said without shifting her gaze from the keys. ‘Not twelve.’ She played the notes again, her composure thoughtful. Perhaps she would run through the scales or play something from memory for there was no sheet music on the ledge. Harriet watched in anticipation. That she showed an interest in the pianola, however half hearted, was, Harriet hoped, evidence of recovery. Three weeks earlier Ginny had pulled into the driveway in her small hatchback. She alighted with a quick scan of the garden, paused at the sight of her mother crouched by a window box deadheading pansies, then she heaved from the boot a heavy looking suitcase and her keyboard and stand lashed to a trolley, and lugged them to the front door. She seemed forlorn and Harriet’s heart did a squeeze. She knew straightaway that Ginny had left her weasel boyfriend and hoped this time it was for good. For three years she had endured their relationship, suffered whenever she pictured his faux muso appearance, a mismatch uniform of drainpipes and unkempt suit jacket, woollen scarf and sunglasses. The despicable Garth, who Harriet had from the first considered talentless, played a perpetual circuit of dead-end gigs, his showy singer-songwriter pretentions little short of delusional. She could never fathom what Ginny saw in him. She dusted off her hands and followed her daughter inside. Ginny parked the trolley and her suitcase in the hall and entered the living room. ‘Tea?’ Harriet asked. ‘Why not,’ Ginny said and flopped down on a sofa. The glass beads tinkled as Harriet parted the curtain. She slipped through, releasing her hand slowly to let the beads settle. She set about making the tea, the fragrant leaves swirling in the pot a mockery of the motherly obligation that swirled about in her heart. She returned with a tray and set it down on the coffee table. ‘You can stay as long as you like,’ she said, hoping that would stretch to no more than three nights.